In The Valley Shades of Death
by IrksomeIrene
Summary: Sherlock Holmes never asked Molly Hooper for her assistance in his death. Molly Hooper didn't count. She wasn't the one to bear his secret, wasn't the one he needed most. Again, she is alone in the world. Again, she is a shadow among the dead. An afterthought to all save one; James Moriarty.
1. Chapter 1

Molly Hooper could not draw a road map from where she had been before The Fall to where she was now. Frankly, she had no idea how she'd strayed so far from her old life, from the life she'd thought she'd always live. She did, however, know that it began at the end of things—as most stories did.

 _But what could I need from you?_

Those had been his final words to her. The last words that lovely, lovely voice would ever speak to her; nearly stilted with confusion over the idea that Mousy Molly could have a single thing to offer the great Sherlock Holmes. It didn't seem real when she'd been told by a hesitant nurse, the man acting as if she might implode at the announcement. Even though he had jumped from her very own Bart's, the notion of his death did not truly hit her until the funeral. It wasn't real until she was dressed all in black, staring at a closed, black casket covered in flowers. There had been something strange about that casket; it was so very dark, like a void that consumed all around it. It was like the flipping of a switch, laying her eyes on that casket. She was distant from her own body, with every color simply gone out of the world.

Sherlock's funeral wasn't her first, not by a long shot. She had been to her mother's funeral when she was eight, her father's when she was nineteen. Sherlock wasn't the first junky she'd known either, though he had managed to out live the majority of them. None of their funerals had been as quietly posh as Sherlock's but she supposed, even in death, he could not resist a bit of style. She'd thought it would help, having past experience with going through the motions—she always thought it would help. She lingered at the grave, long after it had been filled in, long after everyone had left. It was in the solitude that tears came—long over due. Because it was real. He was well and truly gone.

She wrote up her two weeks notice after that. Printed it off, kept it at her desk, nearly handed it in every time she had to pass that bit of sidewalk with a stain that seemed never to truly fade, every time she found herself in the stairwell she knew Sherlock—the man she had loved unconditionally and unrequitedly—had taken on his way to his final breath. She'd had more than a few panic attacks in that stairwell, more than a few panic attacks in the lab where Sherlock had spoken his final, stinging words to her, and more than a few panic attacks in the dead of night, barely able to breath from the nightmares.

Molly turned to her friends in the weeks and months that followed for shoulders to lean on, for anyone— _anyone_ —to talk to. But her coworkers and colleges (Meena especially, though she shouldn't have been half as hurt or surprised by that) made little time for her when it became clear that no juicy gossip would come from lunches in the cafeteria with a grieving Molly Hooper; Lestrade was fighting losing battles on all fronts (internal investigation by NSY, the very real and looming possibility of forced retirement, messy divorce with no end in sight, and—of course—also struggling through his own mourning of the great detective) and in such bad shape she'd noted he'd even taken up smoking again; Mrs. Hudson had been so distraught over not only loosing Sherlock (whom Molly suspected the woman thought of as her own son) but John as well that she'd closed up 221 and gone to her sister's; and John Watson was always a bit strange about having coffee with her, canceling more and more until eventually she got the message and stopped reaching out.

It was a bit pathetic really, when she looked at the list of people she'd turned to in those dark hours. None of them were really _her_ friends. They were Sherlock's people, his friends, his patchwork family. And in the long nights when she cried into Toby's fur, she wished it was she that had died in his stead. The loss of Sherlock had turned the lives of so many people on their heads but who would have missed her, really? She was alone in the world. The worst that would have come from her jumping from the top of Bart's would have been a bit of inconvenience for HR.

Days blurred together, a dull monochrome of monotony, of pointlessness, of barely understanding why she bothered to take each breath. She'd thought it was the bottom. She'd had some small hope in having no where to go but up.

Then, one day, she came home to find a dead man on her couch, watching her season two Glee DVDs, drinking her tea, and petting her cat. She'd had a brief thrill of terror at having a serial killer in her living room before she remembered: _I don't count._ Sherlock Holmes wasn't around the play games with anymore, there wasn't a point to killing her.

"You're home a bit late." Jim noted casually, eyes on the TV for a beat before he turned his strange grin on her, "Trouble at work?"

To this day, she could not explain why his casual question had made her burst into such uncontrollable tears. Perhaps it was because—no matter how insincere—it was the first time since The Fall anyone had asked even the vaguest question about her well being. Or perhaps it was terror at having a murderer in her house. Or perhaps it was agony that Jim was the dead man on her couch and not Sherlock. Not that it really mattered. Because it was none of the "angels" that lent her a should to cry on in her hour of need. No, it was the Devil himself.

He'd hugged her and patted her back and soothed her hair and cooed at her and supplied her with tissues. She knew he was probably just running through a checklist of motions but she could pretend in that moment that someone cared.

"There, there, pet. There, there. Jim'll fix it for you." And she believe him. She believed him because even if it was a lie, even if it was a mangled sort of devil's truth, it was all she had now. Perhaps it was more than she'd ever really had.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a surprising amount of travel involved with being an international criminal mastermind's girlfriend... employee... pet?

Alright, perhaps not that surprising. He did have "international" right there in his title. But really, how many blokes brought their girlfriend (fuck buddy?) to work with them? (God, she really did have to sort out what the hell she was to Jim one of these days.) She'd been working with Sherlock and the NSY for years and never been so much as invited to a crime scene, never mind flown out to exotic locations at least once a month.

She never really knew what to expect when she got word of an upcoming trip. Not that she generally had much time to think about it as she was lucky if she had a full twenty four hours notice. Usually, she'd get a text at work, something simple and short from Jim without much of a clue as to where it was she was actually being shipped off to, and arrive home to a barefoot Sebastian Moran sprawled out on her living room carpet like the giant dog-in-a-man's body he was, watching crap telly with her already packed bag waiting by the door.

It had taken quite some time for her to get used to Moran packing her bag for her; back when Sebastian had not only perpetually scared the absolute shit out of her but been _a strange man going through her pants drawer_. She still wasn't particularly fond of the idea of him fishing about in her drawers but at least he had the decency to pack mostly simple, comfortable, practical underthings with a pair or two of lacy pants for emergencies. It also rather helped knowing he was a very firm 6 on the Kinsey scale, so no need to worry over his being a pervert about the things he pilfered through. And, while he didn't have some magical gay fashion sense, he did pack quite well for whatever she was thrown into. She'd never found herself in Sweden without the appropriate number fuzzy jumpers and she'd never turned up to Australia without tank tops and sun screen (and a very handy book about deadly creatures of Australia tucked into her carry on with a note on the inside cover in Moran's blocky, military hand: " _Tl;dr: Australia is made of poisonous_ _monster_ _spiders and nightmares._ _Have fun, Hooper._ ")

Over all, becoming Jim Moriarty's... _person_ had actually been quite a positive turn in her life. (And didn't that just say everything about the state of her life before all this that the appearance of a consulting criminal mastermind had been an _improvement_.) In the last year, she had seen more of the world than she'd ever dreamed of seeing in her entire life. She'd met quite a few interesting characters, too—and not just some extraordinarily shady Russian gangsters, either! There had been brilliant and well respected peers in a wide range of scientific fields, heart aching poets, posh artists, and more than a few congenial politicians. She was still a bit awkward, still a bit morbid in her humor, still Molly Hooper (she refused to acknowledge how frequently she had to reassure herself of that these days), but she found she wasn't so nervous in social situations anymore, found she actually rather looked forward to acting as Jim's liaison for his little private luncheons and stand in when he was invited to posh parties. She was the sort of woman who _knew people_ now and she took secret delight in it.

She was also quite a bit fitter a year into Jim's secret return to the living. She ran every morning now, even had a gym membership she actually made good use of. And while she mostly only went to the gym on a regular schedule because she knew Moran would give her absolute shit if she didn't, she did actually enjoy the running. When the nightmares and panic attacks came, instead of hiding away in her flat, clutching Toby or sobbing into her pillow, feeling helpless and useless and utterly alone; she took to the banks of the Thames and ran full out until her legs threatened to give out on her (or, when she was particularly determined to outrun her demons, actually did give out on her, allowing her the dubious pleasure of eating pavement for dessert). She'd learned quite a bit of self defense as well—though, she'd noticed some time ago, her "self defense" lessons from Moran had been more offense than defense for quite a while. And, despite the fact that cars still rather terrified her, Jim had managed to talk her into learning some "evasive driving" from a questionably sane "friend" of his who liked to pretend he was some sort of American cowboy—complete with ye-haws and ridiculously massive belt buckle—despite his strong Bristol accent. (And by "talk her into" she of course meant he'd held some poor bound, gagged, and blindfolded girl in a Sainsbury's uniform at gun point until Molly had completed her first lesson and agreed to go along with the rest of Mr. Balls-out-crazy's highly questionable curriculum. On the bright side, she'd learned how to do a rather impressive handbrake turn.) Jim had rather enjoyed watching her terror at being in a car, had enjoyed even more that her fear had fueled her precision, and she couldn't deny that the sex afterwards had been rather amazing.

All in all, if one overlooked the ever worsening Stockholm syndrome, Molly felt it was safe to say Jim's return had done her a world of good. (And wasn't it just so _Jim_ to give a girl Stockholm syndrome in her own home. It was difficult not to admire his skill with mind games.) But really, the biggest improvement of them all had been the simple acknowledgment. Where Sherlock bulldozed over her input, disrespected her in her own lab—in her own morgue, and only every really acknowledged her findings with a blithe " _Obviously_ ," Jim gave her bone chilling grins and purred out "lovely"s when she presented him with her work. Because honestly, Jim wasn't nearly as smart as Sherlock Holmes had been (she'd never tell the man, she didn't imagine her death would be a quick one if she ever uttered those words) but he knew people and he knew how to outsource. And that, as it turned out, was worth a lot more in the real world than a few extra I.Q. points. After all, Sherlock's ultimate downfall had been essentially sloppily tripping over a bit of bribery, some fairy tales, and over a roof's ledge to his death. Not exactly genius.

"Where's my Molly gone off to?" Jim cooed in her ear, pulling her close with a hum and a sigh.

Molly smiled and turned so he could tuck himself under her arm, lay his head on her breast. Jim—despite being a violent, raging, psychopathic serial killer—was the biggest cuddler she'd ever slept with. Jim actually quite enjoyed being sweet—even if the sweetness sometimes got lost in translation (she had not, for instance, enjoyed the carefully clipped obituary left on her pillow one morning of the man who had—in life—religiously cat called her on her way to work and occasionally attempted to pinch her bum).

"Good morning." She said instead of answering properly, voice rough from sleep.

"Happy birthday, kitten." He murmured, lips reaching out to hers for a long round of lazy snogging. She was surprised he knew her birthday and felt her heart melt a bit that he'd bothered to remember. It had been ages since even _she_ had celebrated it.

By the time he pulled away, sliding out of bed completely starkers and not a bit shy about it, she was rather tingly all over. There was absolutely something to be said for the relaxed intimacy of a morning with a familiar lover. Molly propped her chin on her palm to enjoy the pleasant view of his cute little bum wandering out of the room before flopping lazy back into the plush hotel bed.

 _H_ _ow come_ _the_ _pillows at home were never half as fluffy and comfortable as the pillows at these posh hotels? Not at all fair._

She was beginning to doze off when the bed shifted and a moderately heavy rectangle was placed on her sheet covered belly. Frowning, Molly cracked an eye to find a smirking Jim knelt (still completely naked and still not a bit bothered) by her legs, petting the outsides of her thighs patiently through the covers, a carefully wrapped box with a little bow on it resting innocently on her, shifting with each breath. She smiled, even knowing is was just as likely to be a severed finger he needed her to fully analyze as it was to be jewelry.

"Jim." She said fondly, taking the present as she sat up, pressing a kiss to his cheek before she shred the paper and gingerly opened the box.

As it turned out, it was neither body bits nor shiny bobs. It was a rather lovely new mobile phone complete with ear buds and a sturdy black phone case covered in white cat silhouettes. She knew the moment she set eyes on it; this was something more than just a phone, more than just an expensive birthday present.

"It's lovely, Jim." She said as she lifted her eyes to Jim's, though she did not yet remove the device from the box. Jim seemed delighted by her hesitance, delighted that she was aware that this was A Big Deal™.

"Do you like it? Seby helped, of course. Made a few special tweaks. You'll need them," he paused, a shift from falsely casual to purposeful and intense, "if you want to continue."

There was a small part of Molly Hooper that knew, just _knew_ , whatever he presented to her next, whatever fresh hell, whatever new bit of insanity he sought to drag her into—she would either accept and continue on whatever twisted path he had set her down the day he'd first commented on her _stupid bloody blog_ , or she would politely turn it down and they'd never find her body. It wasn't the first "choice" like this he'd given her. It certainly wouldn't be the last. But, somehow, even without knowing what it was he was offering, she felt as if this was bigger than the ones before, this was something that would close the door on so very much, would change _everything_. This—whatever it was—was a point of no return.

She didn't trust her voice, only croaking out a hushed, "Continue?"

His smirk twitched a bit wider, "To be a part of things, of course. An important part of things. You might even get to meet the others." She could tell he was absolutely delighted by the idea of this despite the sudden rush of ice in her veins at his uttering of "the others." Molly hadn't really considered the possibility of there being any truly important "others" outside of Jim and Moran.

But Jim was offering her a chance to belong—a chance to not die by his hand, here in this beautiful hotel room. Had she ever really belonged? Had she ever really been an important part of things? Of _any_ things? She was smart—brilliant in her field, even. She was extraordinarily accomplished for her age, holding a respectable and exceptionally competitively sought after position at a prestigious institution. She was a regularly published pathologist, a woman in a male dominated field, and she'd damn well gotten there on her own! And yet, how consistently she was overlooked. How constantly she was the source of gossip and pity. How well she was forgotten. (Distantly, every stinging memory of Sherlock calling her "John" while she slaved at his side to aid him in his work flashed through her mind, choking her for a moment.)

And now, to have the offer to be a part of something—even something some part of her gut twisted at, cringing away from what it knew was actual, real world evil—to be an _important_ part of something. Even if she didn't know fully what that something was, even if she was now violently aware of how little she knew about Jim's work, his dealings, who these _others_ were; the need to be seen, to be at least vaguely respected, to look into eyes and not see _pity_ (violence, apathy, blood lust—fine. But pity? She wanted to vomit at the very thought of it), it made the choice rather easy in the end.

Slowly, carefully, she took the phone from its box, setting the wrappings aside to begin her shy examination of the device, "Does it have a passcode?" Jim grinned wildly.

"We have _sooo_ much to do, Molly Hooper," he cheered in his unnerving sing-song way.

Laying in bed, tangled together, playing with her new phone (he was quite eager to show her the playlists he'd uploaded onto the device for her) and planning her first, real criminal exploit, for the first time in a long time and despite the knotting of her stomach, her heart felt light. Molly finally knew what she was—not only to the world—but to Jim Moriarty.

Molly Hooper: Partner in Crime.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Hooper's first time was… well, terrifying. She was so nervous, she had to keep wiping her sweaty palms on her pants and she was so jumpy she was legitimately worried about swallowing and/or choking to death on her own gum. She hadn't really expected so many acrobatics to be involved, either—she'd rather thought that sort of thing was strictly for the films. The terror of something going wrong, of getting caught rather made her want to vomit and had followed her around for weeks afterwards. But the rush of it, the thrill of it, the toe curling exhilaration and relief promised to become absolutely addicting.

The best part of her first theft, however, had been watching the news at breakfast in her hotel room the very next day with Jim and Sebastian. She had stared dumbfounded for a moment before a brilliant grin split her face and she leapt up with a sudden rush of glee. She hopped about on the posh couch, she danced on the shiny coffee table, she jumped and flopped about on the world's most comfortable bed, and she did not, for one minute, stop laughing and giggling and basking in the glow of having absolutely gotten away with it. Eventually, she ended up in Jim's lap, practically mauling the clothes from him, at which point Sebastian beat a hasty retreat and left them to their victory sex.

The pieces were startlingly easy to smuggle out of the country. Molly was sad to see the Monets go—the hazy shades of blue were truly enchanting—but Jim was firm on the matter; she could not keep them. The pay out, however, had rather made her forget her sighing over the lost art. She had never, in her life, seen so much money. And best of all, Jim's friend and important person she'd "in due time" meet apparently owned a business or two they could easily launder the money through, which meant she didn't have to stuff loads of cash into shoe boxes and spend forever in her means. No, she had a proper paycheck and stubs and even if she had to pay taxes on it, she at least got to put it in her bank account and look at all those pretty little zeros lined up one after the other. With the exceptions of the Monets, she could not, for the life of her, understand why someone(s) had paid so much for such ugly things but frankly, she didn't care anymore.

Her first big purchase was not a stupid handbag or a flash car, it was a home. She'd had her eye on a particular little house for a while now but the rent had been above and beyond her means. Until that first pay out, at least. She had never, in her wildest dreams, thought she would ever be the sort of person who could "make an offer he can't refuse" but there it was, enough money to make the man sell to her on the spot. And now she owned a home with a spare bedroom (mostly for Sebastian when he stayed over) and a lovely kitchen for her baking, and a garden—a proper garden, not the squat of pitiable grass and mud her childhood home had bragged. Toby had spent the first week mostly tucking himself under furniture and refusing to be anything but sour about the whole ordeal. Then, like a flip switched, he was at home; sprawling in the sun, avidly watching the birds and squirrels at the feeder, pestering her for food and Sebastian for entire cans of tuna and bits of whatever meat he put in his sandwich.

It was home. _She_ was home. Finally, at last.

As her career progressed, Molly discovered that she was, as it turned out, very picky about her art. She did not like Meyer de Haan, Paul Gauguin, Henri Matisse, Pablo Picasso, or Lucian Freud. She did not like modern art of any kind. She did not like stupid bloody Campbell soup cans, she did not like abrasive shades of red and blue faffing about together in the same work, she did not like things that looked like something she could manage over a spare weekend, she did not like things that looked like a toddler had been left alone on a canvas with a bowl of pasta and pea mash.

Molly Hooper liked Claude Monet, Joseph Turner, Walter Crane, Gustave Courbet, and good lord almighty _Bernini_ : Molly had always been quite straight but one look at _Blessed Ludovica Albertoni_ and she might have gone just a bit gay for a mo. (She later laughed at herself for it. After all, if she were going to go a bit lesbian, it _would_ be a death scene that did it for her.) She liked paintings so real it took a beat to realize they weren't pictures, she liked vast skies and seas and the sort of vistas not cut up by power lines and cell towers and car filled roads—scenes that simply didn't exist in the modern world anymore, she liked calming blues and rich greens dancing about together in soul soothing harmony, she liked busy Art Nouveau that could keep her eyes entertained finding some new little detail every time she looked again, she liked to see a lifetime of study and dedication and devotion upon the canvas. (Perhaps because her own lifetime of study and dedication and love had fallen so woefully flat.)

Jim did not come with her to the art galleries and museums she visited. She was rather grateful for that, though she felt horribly guilty for being glad of her time away from him. Still, in these quiet times, as she sat undisturbed for minutes and hours, simply taking in the beauty before her, she felt as if she were nearly her old self again. She was allowed to be sad and angry at Sherlock for being dead, for having died pointlessly. For Molly had never, not once believed that he was a fraud and now, in the company of Moriarty, she knew without a doubt Sherlock had been every bit the detective—every bit the man—she'd known him to be. She was allowed to regret leaving Bart's. She was allowed to miss the chill of the morgue, the smell of too much bleach and decay mixing together, the dull hum of the lights and lab equipment in motion, her little chats with her "patients" as she worked on them. (Resigning from Bart's had been... not at all the liberating experience she had expected. Even if the people were often cruel, even if the hours had been odd, even if she had been over looked, even if it had been rather a lonely thing; walking out those doors for the very last time had felt like the biggest mistake of her life, had broken her heart in a way not even Sherlock bloody Holmes could have managed.)

She was allowed to think on the people she'd not seen in an age. She was allowed to wonder if Greg had finally settled things with the wife, if he'd started dating again or simply thrown himself fully into his work, if he was still smoking or gone back to patches; wonder if Mrs. Hudson had finally found it in herself to clean out 221B, if the woman had even ever returned from her sisters; wonder if John had managed on his own… she had kept an eye on the obituaries for some time now, worried his face and name would pop up without Sherlock Holmes to keep him tethered; she even wondered about Inspector Donovan and that Anderson fellow who wasn't _nearly_ as stupid as Sherlock was always complaining. She was allowed to wonder if they missed her, if they had even noticed she was gone from her life. She was allowed to simply… breathe again.

But even these moments of break from her new life, these moments of heavy, heart broken peace with herself were growing harder and harder to manage. For with her steady increase in art thievery came a little niggling at the back of her mind. It noticed the security cameras without looking directly at them, it timed the guards without her conscious command, it picked out easy targets for information and engineering security breaches. She wondered if that was what it had been like for Sherlock—a third eye that could not be blinded, a smooth voice in her head that could not be silenced; had Sherlock Holmes been as helpless in his deductions as she was in this?

She thought she might nearly be able to forgive him for his crueler moments if it were. Though the thought caused a rueful laugh at the time, for it was quite a joke to pretend as if she had not always forgiven him the hurt he caused her.

Perhaps she should be grateful to Sherlock. Without those lessons learned, without her knowing how to set aside the pain day in and day out, she wouldn't have been able to survive her relationship with Jim as long as she has. Though a part of her wonders if she truly is surviving at all or if Molly Hooper is dying out, a native species being eaten away by some foreign creature that will thrive in her absence, a creature that will leave no trace of little horrible-jumper-wearing, morbid Molly.

For she is certainly changing and she cannot tell if it is adaptation or extinction.

* * *

The rainy days made her contemplative, made her sometimes wonder if her old life hadn't been some sort of hazy dream. Once upon a time, Molly Hooper's favorite thing in the world had been rainy days like these at home, curled up on her comfy chair with an interesting medical journal, feet tucked into her fluffiest socks, a happy Toby purring in her lap, and a warm cuppa with lots of lemon and a bit of honey. Then, with Sherlock's suicide and Jim's not-suicide turning her world on its head thrice and more, Molly's favorite thing in the world had become out running her demons and nightmares in the dark hours of the morning, the rush of euphoria a much healthier alternative to the rushes she'd sought out at uni.

Now, Molly Hooper's favorite thing in the world was some good old fashioned grand larceny. And as things progressed and she proved herself to be quite good at her new work, Jim expanded her horizons and she found she wasn't particularly picky in her thefts. Daylight heist or midnight robbery, so long as it was something people _wanted badly_ , she found she quite enjoyed taking it. It was not exactly something she'd been expecting to encounter in her new life of crime—that is, actually _enjoying_ her new life of crime.

But there was no going back now, no attempting to reclaim the real Molly Hooper, no chance to even figure out who that was. She had work to do, important work (and really, there was no saying no to Jim).

Of course, it wasn't just thefts she committed. Actually, stealing things came with great big gaps between assignments. In the interim, Molly acted as Moran's bureaucratic counter part. Where Sebastian delivered messages to the right people with bullets and poisonings and faked suicides; Molly delivered messages to the right people with incriminating images and paper trails and faked records. That tamer work rather suited her, too. While it was not as satisfying as a theft, watching people fear her— _her_ , Mousy Molly, "oh don't mind her," little miss nobody—was quite invigorating. She especially loved breaking people in, watching the realization, the fear, the uncertainty creep up in people who'd set eyes on her and immediately thought she was a sweet nothing.

She looked so innocent and smiled so constantly, she was so utterly unassuming it was like having a master key to every door in London. Delivering life altering threats complete with lists of painful demands while beaming her bright smile and with an in-less-than-good taste joke or two while the recipient (almost exclusively ridiculously powerful men) went pale, had never failed to be absolutely delicious.

Of course, after the breaking of the news usually came the denial, the violent reaction, the threats. Sometimes her new acquisitions simply accepted things as they were—naively expected the blackmail to be a one time event; a "complete these tasks and it all goes away" sort of thing—and Molly always found them to be the dullest sorts of creatures. But more often than not, the poor bastard would try to cover their own frozen quiet of shock and fear with blustering and quite a lot of frantic gesturing. The rest was rather formulaic but no less invigorating—rather like watching a favorite movie again and again.

First came abject denial of the entire thing:

 _You are clearly mistaken, I would never cheat on my wife!_

 _I don't know what you think you're playing at, but I would never take money from my own company!_

 _Not possible, this is absolute_ _revolting_ _shite!_

 _ **Are you sure? 'Cause it rather looks like you have.**_ Peppy sweetness, a little smile, innocent brown eyes.

Then came the snap of rage:

 _You listen here you—you little hussy! You can't prove a damn thing! They can do all sorts of things to pictures with the internet_ _and computers and all that_ _these days! Who's going to take the word of a little nobody like you over a well respected man like myself?_

 _ **I've found the first victim of budget cuts in the news is always the fact checkers. Besides, there's always**_ **The Sun** ** _—and a quick post to your wife, of course._**

 _How dare you try to drag my name through the mud like this! People will not stand for it—they'll see this for what it really is._

 _ **I believe "what it really is" is about a 2-6 year sabbatical with some... rather interesting characters.**_

 _This is faked! I have never, in my entire life,_ _touched a child! No one's going to believe this—they know me—they know I wouldn't!_

 ** _No, you probably haven't. But the accusation alone... well, that's not exactly the sort of thing people turn a blind eye to these days—especially with some very convincing text logs floating around._**

Then came the useless attempts at bribery and deal making:

 _You seem like a smart young thing. How about we come to an arrangement? I'm a very powerful man, you know. I'm sure we can work something out._

 _I can put you on allowance? It'll go into your account every month, you give me the records, and we never see each other again._

 _W_ _hat do you want—just—just what the_ hell _do you want?_

 _ **I believe you'll find the conditions for your continued bright future are in the back of the folder.**_

Then came the tears and/or several fingers of rather tempting brandy:

 _Pale faces, terrified eyes, lost expressions, shaking hands, and quite a lot of silence that she delighted in breaking with a bit of terrible humor. The cheerier she was and the less she seemed to care for their fates, the more they paled, the wider their eyes were when they looked at her, the greater their fear when dealing with her in the future._

And finally, came sweet, sweet victory as they surrendered to their indefinite indentured servitude. Molly always left with an extra bounce in her step, a slightly wider smile, and the taste of bitter guilt in the pit of her stomach—easier and easier to brush aside with each errand.

She was quite happy with her new roll in life—didn't really have choice in the matter—until she caught a glimpse of her title on some rather official documentation. She had gone from "Specialist Registrar" at St. Bart's to "Personal Assistant" for some newspaper she didn't even read, which was a bit irritating as Molly had worked damn hard to become a pathologist. Logically, she knew she couldn't exactly go around being called a "professional blackmail errand girl" but "Personal Assistant" made her want to cringe. It made it sound as if she answered phones, took notes, and slept with her boss for a living—which... well, alright, two out of three but she'd technically started dating Jim before she'd begun working for him and he was such a prat about answering his phone sometimes—it really was just easier to do it for him but that still didn't mean she had to _like_ the title. Especially with even _more_ people neglecting to address her properly as "Dr. Hooper."

Still, at least she could get some satisfaction from a href=" post/162888868527/so-i-made-a-thing-for-my-darkmolly-fic-original"the paper/a. She felt rather like a cat given the exact right number of long, firm strokes down its back as she folded the front page in half and greeted Jim with a smirk she couldn't have suppressed if her life depended upon it.

"Good news, darling?" Jim asked, a little knowing glint in his eye.

"Terrible, actually. Some art stolen from The National Gallery. What _is_ this world coming to?" She said, still smirking before she leaned close and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Well, I've got something that should cheer you up." He presented her with a simple folder as she set aside her coffee to give it her full attention. She flipped it open, expecting to find information on another acquisition he expected her to make. And she was partly correct as her eyes began to go a bit wide, carefully sorting through the few pages within.

"Is this… is this a joke? Are these… _all_ mine?" She asked, glancing up at him a bit incredulously, his wicked grin enough answer even before he said a word.

"If you think you can handle it—of course, I could give them to someone-"

"Don't you dare!" Molly cut his teasingly innocent baiting short, clutching the folder close. Inside was a veritable laundry list of not just art but government and private sector items as well. A good deal of it looked like data and information collection—which was usually Moran's area as he was a bit frighteningly good at hacking—but the rush of finally, _finally_ having proper challenges set before her made her tingle from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes and she was fairly certain she looked about ready to eat Jim right then and there. In fact…

"Jim, I think you need the loo." For once, he actually looked confused.

"I think I'd notice if I did," he said with half a chuckle and an almost sideways glance.

Molly sat up straighter, leaned forward, traced her fingers lightly over the back of his hand laying on the table, and said very pointedly, "Go to the loo, Jim."

His eyebrows shot up and his lips twisted into a delight he barely tried to keep to himself. Molly was not nearly as discreet about following him as she probably should have been but the buzz of excitement was too much to make her care what some underpaid baristas thought. It was a lovely dynamic she and Jim finally had going, really. Molly received information and jobs that thrilled her, Jim received blow jobs in the bathrooms of relaxed little coffee shops. Win-win!

Molly dealt with the art first, taking them in March. It had been a bit boring, honestly. The private collector had loaned them out to a smaller gallery that had none of the security she was used to dealing with. But she was one of the few thieves out there at the moment who didn't cut priceless works of art right out of the frames to beat security measures, so Jim got to charge more for the things she stole—which meant her pay out for even small jobs were higher than the average black market value. She told herself that she didn't want to maim the pieces—no matter how ugly a lot of the ones she took were—but in honesty, it was how very much she enjoyed baffling police. No one could figure out how she was doing it.

With that out of the way, she set her mind to the information acquisitions at hand. Which lead to the realization that quite a few of the items on "Moriarty's Wish List" were in rather close association to a man she'd come to hate quite passionately; Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft was the reason Sherlock was dead. Mycroft was the one who'd set Moriarty on the scent. Mycroft Holmes, who thought he was so bloody brilliant and superior, was the one who'd set every bit of this misery in motion and Molly Hooper would not be forgiving him for it any time soon. It was certainly a delicious motivator to make these particular thefts a work of art in and of themselves. She wanted Mycroft to be as baffled as the lowly "goldfish" he spent so much time looking down his nose at. She wanted Mycroft to feel as helpless as she felt in this spider's web he'd started; feeding the spider then setting it free. She wanted Mycroft Holmes to know the sort of fear she was now so intimately familiar with.

The British Government needed to learn some humility, needed to remember not all was certain—and she was more than suited to the task.

Molly quickly decided she was going to take everything Jim wanted from Mycroft in one fell swoop. It would be difficult to coordinate but certainly worth it for two very good reasons (or… well, one very good reason and second, rather vindictive reason). Firstly, she knew once one piece was taken, Mycroft would notice and he'd adapt—prepare himself for another attack. There were six items on her list associated with Mycroft, going after them individually would mean giving Mycroft Holmes (ignorant, arrogant prat extraordinaire but still a bloody genius) six chances at catching her. She didn't imagine her luck would last that long head to head with Mr. Holmes. Secondly, she well and truly wanted to shake the foundations of that man's belief in himself. She wanted to pull the rug right out from under him when he very least expected it. She wanted to devastate him and leave him jumping at shadows in her wake.

The Holmes boys always complained about being so terribly bright and so painfully bored—it was time to show the surviving git just how interesting she could make things.

It took months of detailed planning, deep research into the precious few extra hands she would need for such a big operation. She needed massive amounts of recon which Molly outsourced to unassuming college students who wanted to make some money and the loose ends of Sherlock's Irregulars, maintaining enough fresh faces to keep off the radar of Mycroft's surveillance. She never went to any of the locations herself, not as she did with her art heists. She might hate Mycroft, but that didn't mean she was for one moment going to underestimate him. She became rather obsessed with the whole project, really. Jim had been quite put out at being so blatantly ignored until he'd barged into her room one night, positively murderous, and found her walls covered in the sort of detailed mess that would have put Sherlock (or any number of serial killers/stalkers) to shame. The yarn was pink, the pins were little red cherries, the post-its were shaped like dialog bubbles and cat heads, there were cat stickers and hearts and color coded gel pen notes _everywhere_. It was such a strange mix of adorable and malevolent, Jim had hardly known what to do with himself. Then decided having Molly Hooper for dessert was probably a good start.

He'd not been the least bit upset with her distracted behavior or distance after that, though he did occasionally pop by to bask in her brilliantly malicious plans and to get another taste of her while she tried to work. Molly Hooper was bloody brilliant and it was quite possibly the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

Then, one night—one single, _glorious_ day—everything came together. Across the UK, from Great and Grand London to a bitter rock where a rotation of MI5 agents were outnumbered by puffins (and literally nothing else) 10:1, Molly Hooper's chaos reined supreme. It did not begin in the dark of night—it would have certainly been easier to orchestrate with the cover of darkness but that was too predictable. People _expected_ bad things to happen in the night. It was a primordial fear, the dark. No, Molly Hooper wanted The British Government in all his glory to fear the day, to know that even with his guards at full alert, even with every cog in his beautiful machine working perfectly, she could still reach out and touch him—take from him whatever she wanted.

No one even realized what was happening at first. Her teams did not enter guns blazing, they did not bash their way in the front doors with a battle cry of glory. No, Hooper's work was subtle and like her work in her past life—went largely unnoticed. From different points of entry, individuals made their way through.

A cute girl playing as a stressed, fresh faced intern forgets her security badge back at her desk. A grumpy maintenance worker grumbles through check in. A friendly man barely on time for an interview gets waved through with the other candidates. A daughter is here to surprise her _dear old da_ with some lovely home backed sweets for his birthday. Across the country, people get lost in the monochrome halls of government buildings, some security badges go missing—unnoticed, some tape blocks a few doors from shutting properly, a few magnets confuse a few basic alarms. People slip through, people blend in, people move casually in near perfect time: Molly Hooper's grand waltz.

It isn't until the very last minute that alarms are raised but when they are, it is as one. Across the nation, security sirens blare, panic strikes those high enough to see it all happening at once. Security teams deploy, act swift and true to training. Everything is executed flawlessly and yet, the iron fist of the British Government closes on thin air.

"What do you mean ' _nothing_ '?" Mycroft bites into his phone, Anthea pale with fingers blazing across her phone in urgency.

"There's nothing here, sir."

In the hours and days that follow, that's revealed to be not entirely true. For there are a terrifying number of missing files and copied hard drives but nothing that points clear and true to a particular agency or nation. There are even finger prints at a few scenes that lead directly to known persons—persons that turn up dead in an abandoned car garage two days later, killed the day of the theft according to the local coroner. Mycroft visits the scene personally. Five victims, a single shooter. Quick, little to no hesitation, done fast enough that only one—likely the last victim—had a chance to get more than a few paces from the shooter. In the end, it wasn't even Mycroft himself who noticed the biggest clue they had.

"Sir..." Anthea hesitated, drawing his attention. For once, her attention was not firmly on her phone. No, her confused gaze was on the ceiling above his head. Stuck to the concrete by a childish cat sticker at each corner was a piece of paper with a smudge of something at its center. It was not until the thing had been properly documented for the crime scene and put into an evidence bag that he was able to get a decent look at it. There were no prints on the paper or the sticker or the ceiling about it. Only "boo!" typed into the center of what turned out to be the back of a photograph of himself. Not a photograph he'd stood for, not a proper portrait or even a family candid. No, this was the sort of photograph Mycroft was more in the habit of delivering to others. A long distance shot, a telephoto lens, him clearly unaware of the shot being taken while he sat with his parents through a stage production of _Wicked_.

For only the second time in his life, Mycroft Holmes did not know what to do next. He was shaken to his very core.

He had his parents practically under house arrest (Mummy was calling near constantly to complain and demand answers). He madly investigating every breach of security both individually and as a whole, keeping eyes and ears out for the acquisition of the stolen British intelligence to give himself a chance to track the theft back to its origins. Honestly, he had no idea what… what any of _this_ was but it felt like a threat. It felt like a very real, very personal threat. People weren't supposed to know who he was. What was the point of being a veritable shadow king if everyone and their dog knew who he was!?

The photograph of himself (and his parents) was his best lead. He knew that. If this was as personal as it seemed, then it should have narrowed down the suspects significantly. But unless John Watson had not only decided to put both his and Sherlock's lives on the line by going after Mycroft now of all times, but also somehow developed the ability to plot without telegraphing every little thought flitting through that little goldfish brain of his, Mycroft found he was rather out of both leads and suspects. It was a month after the incident, a month of going nowhere and knowing nothing that Mycroft came to the hard realization: It was time to call for help.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mind if I take a seat?"

Mary looked up from her phone to find a smiling girl—woman probably, but girl seemed to suit her a bit more—that fell deftly into the top ten most innocent faces she'd ever seen. The melancholy part Mary that was always full of "what if"s and regret wondered what it must be like to be fully grown and still so sweet.

"Not at all." Mary said quickly, expecting the girl to cart off the chair opposite her and join the slightly crowded table across the cafe.

Instead, the brunette beamed and sat down, "Thanks!" She took a moment to settle herself, putting her raincoat across the back of the chair. Mary noted that on top of being a childishly brilliant shade of yellow, it also had an adorable vinyl duck sewn onto each pocket. The black trousers the girl wore were rather loose and not in fashion, her jumper looked warm but with the repeating atrocity of white, yellow, light blue, dark blue, and pink patterned stripes, Mary had to wonder if the girl wasn't at least a bit color blind.

"Terrible weather lately—though I suppose it's hardly unexpected—London and all." The girl gave a little half laugh at herself. And somehow, just like that, Mary found an hour gone, wrapped up in the warm, happy chatter of a stranger.

It was so very easy to talk to this girl. So easy to forget the past and live in the moment, in the smell of roasting coffee, in the quite music in the background, in the shared laughter between two people moving from strangers to something that might one day be friendship. It was all quite lovely.

She really should have known better.

"Oh! Look at the time! I've got to get back to the office soon." the girl rushed, then smiled brightly at Mary, "I'd like to give you something, if you don't mind."

Mary's surprised played clearly on her face and she gave a little laugh, "Another one of those brownies wouldn't go amiss."

The girl laughed as well and moved to pull something from her coat pocket. Only, in stead of her wallet, she produced a very small USB stick and placed it directly in front of Mary's hands where they were folded around her mostly empty coffee.

Something began to sink in Mary's gut despite the girl's continued smiling—and it suddenly struck Mary that she hadn't actually gotten the girl's name yet. An hour of conversation and she didn't even have an alias to call the girl.

"What's this?" Mary asked, trying to remain upbeat through the creeping fear and alarms going off in her head. After all, the girl was clearly a bit quirky, no reason to jump instantly to worst case situations.

"The beginning of a good friendship, I should hope." The girl smiled and rose, putting on her adorable rain coat and tucking her wallet into her be-ducked coat pocket. She reached out a hand and Mary reflexively took it. Giving it a shake as she spoke and with smile still in place, the girl's bright final words made Mary's blood run cold, "It truly was lovely to meet you, Rosamund. I certainly hope we can work together in the future."

The color drained from Mary's face, her hand jerked from the girl's gentle grasp though the girl hardly seemed offended, instead leaving the warm cafe without an ounce of malice or so much as a backwards glance.

Mary sat frozen for how long, she wasn't sure. But then instinct borne from surviving on the run for so many years kicked in. She was a flurry of calculated motion. She had to leave. She couldn't afford to wait for John and Sherlock—oh God! If she'd been found out… did that mean John was—no. No time for thoughts like that. She couldn't do a damn thing for either of them if she didn't survive herself.

She was halfway through adding a few extra essentials to her go bag when the curiosity finally hit her. If she was going to combat this—whatever this was, she'd need to know what she was up against—what this girl had on her.

Cautiously, she opened Pandora's Box.

Everything. They—there was absolutely no way this was a single person operations—had _everything_. Not just the handpicked vagueries she'd told Watson and Holmes in Turkey. Not just her birth identity or her lawful career. They had _everything_. Nearly every dark secret she'd ever tried to outrun or bury deep sat before her now on her laptop screen. Everything was in folders by year, subfolders by country—with one exception.

 _Incentive_

Rifling through her own blood stained past had been one thing, had been terrifying but easy—she'd lived all this, after all. The innocently ominous exception to the filing system was another matter entirely. Mary found herself resorting to old firing range breathing to keep herself steady as she finally opened it.

Inside was a veritable smorgasbord or people eager to murder her and likely anyone even vaguely associated with her. Folder after folder filled with people who wanted her dead, filled with just enough information to let her know the source of this threat was not idle, wouldn't even need to pull the trigger themselves if she went against them.

At the very bottom was a simple .txt document titled "Let's do coffee." Inside was only a phone number.


	5. Chapter 5

Whelp. Made my first attempt at really telling things from multiple people's points of view. It's weird changing POV. Not sure how smoothly it'll read just yet but I'm looking forward to getting better at it! Hope you guys enjoy. Critiques are very much welcome!

Stitched up, washed, shaved, and dressed in beautifully familiar ratty old jumper and trousers, John Watson was finally beginning to feel like his old self again. Even watching a slightly stiff, impeccably dressed Sherlock childishly bicker with a perpetually, mildly irritated Mycroft was oddly comforting—though the setting of what was, essentially, a nuclear bunker turned secret office space was less than homey. Anthea was presenting Sherlock with a folder containing a photograph within an evidence bag when John finally tuned back into the conversation. (Jet lag and exhaustion were taking serious tolls on his ability to give a shit about the specifics of Holmes pettiness.)

"This was found adhered to the ceiling of the garage, most likely above the shooter's _starting point_. IDs were made on all five victims but the how and why of their connection to this remains… illusive." Mycroft did not like admitting to not knowing things—especially things he had to turn to Sherlock to uncover.

"And what about Molly?" Sherlock seemed to ask apropos of nothing. For once, Mycroft and John were on the same page of confusion and their faces showed it well.

"Molly?" Mycroft questioned, uncomprehending a beat before it clicked in John's mind.

"Molly Hooper, you mean?" John asked, incredulous before realizing Sherlock's train of thought, "These bodies were found up north, not likely she'd have done the autopsies. But he's right," he turned to Mycroft, "we should interview the coroner. By now the bodies won't be much use but he might've left something out of his final report."

John glanced towards Sherlock for confirmation—one could never be entirely sure what Sherlock wanted or where is mind was going, though John had gotten rather good at guessing over the years—only to catch a brief flicker of absolute irritation across his friend's face. John assumed he'd misstepped in his assumption, braced for some whirlwind of "of course not, you idiots," only to be met with quick paced agreement.

"Yes, of course, we'll have to visit the original coroner in person. We'll need Molly Hooper's expertise in the area, however. If there's something to be missed, she'll certainly pick it up. Now," Sherlock whirled dramatically on his brother because even beaten and half starved, Sherlock Holmes was still a bloody drama queen, "we'll be borrowing one of your cars. Straight to Bart's then Baker Street there's much to be done! The game-"

"Specialist Registrar Molly Hooper no longer works at St. Bartholomew's." Mycroft cut in, taking no small amount of pleasure from the act of cutting short his little brother's most ridiculous catchphrase.

"Don't be stupid." Sherlock spit out instantly, like some sort of physical reflex, "Of course she's at Bart's. Where else would she be?"

"We haven't exactly been keeping track of her," there was no small amount of Mycroft's own special brand of verbal eye rolling there, "but I do believe she's a personal assistant for the Chief Editor of some small tabloid or other."

"She what?" Both Sherlock and John chorused incredulously.

"Hmm, rather a waste of a perfectly good education but apparently she makes quite a bit more now than she could have at Bart's. Not exactly as if she was likely to move much further up the ranks than she was, at any rate." Mycroft easily shrugged it off and gave one of his diplomatic smiles, though he did notice Sherlock's stiffening spine as his face contorted as if Mycroft had insulted him personally, "Never fear, brother mine, there is a suitable replacement at Bart's. I'm sure you'll be able to break him in and you'll still be allowed access to their facilities and the occasional body part." Even through Mycroft's tight lipped political smile, John could see the cringing disgust underneath.

Sherlock gave a sharp tug on his jacket and a filthy look to his brother for the comment. John knew immediately that Sherlock was both angry and rather thrown off kilter. Sherlock turned away from the pair of them, paced out and then turned on his heel, straightening and pacing back into their space again, once more a facade of confidence about him.

"Well, we'll still need her expertise. Where is she now? I'm sure she'll be glad to get back to her _real_ work." That seemed to throw Mycroft off a bit but the elder brother was truly beginning to reach his limit of polite interactions with the other Holmes boy and—as dreadfully glad as he was to have his baby brother alive and mostly well and back home—he rather wished to get the pair of them out of his office as quickly as he possible.

"Anthea will look into it and deliver her contact information to you promptly." Mycroft said as way of both informing Anthea of her new task and assuring Sherlock his pathologist would be found. A flury of even more brotherly bickering later and Sherlock and John were in a shiny black car, making their way through London.

 _God, it was good to be home._

Sherlock pulled his new phone from his pocket and plugged in one of the numbers he knew by heart despite the years away from his life. His fingers hesitated for an age, unsure how to tell someone so important to him that he was not half as dead as the world thought he was. He thought on leaving it, this might be the sort of thing best done in person, but the idea of being in the same city as Molly after years away only to further delay their return to things was simply unbearable. Besides, she was Molly, she would understand.

 _Not dead._

It was sent before he could even think it through and as soon as he saw the little text bubble on his phone, he cringed. Not a great opener.

 _Care to look at some bodies? -SH_

He was trying to formulate a request for coffee or lunch or dinner or _something_ when a response came.

 _sorry whos this?_

No "Mx" signature, not the proper punctuation; she must be in the midst of an autopsy or—no, she wasn't doing those anymore. Simply rushed at work, then. Sherlock hesitated to use his name. He still had a great many enemies alive and well, and something just… made him hesitate. He couldn't put his finger on it but putting his name—his real, larger than life name—out into the world, even if only via text, seemed a bad idea. He still wasn't even officially back from the dead, yet.

 _Your favorite smackhead. -SH_

 _def wrong number mate_

"Who are you calling?" John asked when he finally turned his gaze back to the interior of the car to find Sherlock frowning with his phone to his ear.

Sherlock didn't answer, instead when the other end picked up and was decidedly not Molly Hooper, he put on one of his atrociously fake smiles and asked in his best impression of pleasantness, "Hiya, is Molly there?"

"Who?" Came the woman on the other end.

"Molly Hooper. This is her number. I'm trying to get in touch with her." Sherlock explained, barely managing to hold his patience by a tenuous thread.

"Sorry mate, looks like she gave ya'a bad number. Maybe don't go hittin' on girls who ain't interested, yah." She made to ring off but Sherlock quickly cut in.

"No." Sherlock bit out, "I know this is her number. I've contacted her before many times on this number. Where did you get this phone?"

The woman absolutely picked up on the accusation in his voice, "Oi! Listen here prick, this's my number, ya see. I've had it for two bloody years, so ya got the wrong number, bloody git." and then the line was dead.

Sherlock held his phone from his face, affronted and casting the device an accusatory gaze.

"Not Molly, I take it."

"Not Molly." Sherlock confirmed, tucking away the device still a bit unnerved by the interaction. Molly Hooper had had the same phone number since… well since cellphones, as far as he knew. What in the _hell_ could have made her change her number? His mind—ever helpful—immediately began to run through nightmare scenarios. Everything from the more plausible suitor turned stalker to the utterly impossible fantasy of a terrified Molly Hooper substituted in the memory of The Woman's official last minutes at the hands of terrorists—only with no Sherlock Holmes to save her.

He nearly vomited on the spot and had to grip tight to the back of the front seat to keep himself steady for a minute. John immediately worried, Sherlock shrugged him off with some lie or other about tugging a stitch, and the rest of the ride to Baker Street was tense.

* * *

Molly Hooper did not learn of Sherlock's return from the horse's mouth. Did not see him on the streets. Did not even hear it second hand from Moriarty or Moran or Magnussen. No, Molly Hooper had the great pleasure of finding out her once dear friend (the man she loved more than she knew how to fully express some days) whose death had nearly destroyed her (had actually destroyed her in more ways than she would allow herself to acknowledge) was not, in fact, dead but alive and well and back in London via headline on a paper casually abandoned on her usual table at her favorite cafe.

The first things she saw—the very first thing, was not the headline itself but Sherlock's face. With his coat and deerstalker and Watson beside, he looked as if not a single day had passed. She wanted to believe it was some old photo a journalist had dug up, that some part of this was a lie, just the result of not enough current scandals and a writer with too many #SherlockLives conspiracy tabs open at work. But with trembling fingers, she opened the rag of a paper and read headline and all.

Her coffee was on the floor, she was vaguely aware of a pain in her leg—the scalding liquid had splashed her quite badly—she wasn't entirely sure if she was sitting or standing but she was absolutely certain she could not breathe—would never be able to breathe again.

Sherlock was alive. And not a single soul had thought to breathe a word to her.

* * *

Jim Moriarty knew they were right to do what they were doing. He knew Magnussen keeping Molly's personal contact out of Mycroft's grubby hands just long enough to break the story of Sherlock's return before the man himself could reach out to her was the right play, a solid move on their part. But he was… _uneasy_. Over the years Molly had proved one thing to Jim time and time again; Molly Hooper was absolutely, _tediously_ predictable—right up until the moment she wasn't.

She had caught him off guard more than once. Her little waltz with Mycroft had been a brilliant example. Had he expected her to get what he asked for? Of course. Had he expected her to do it in a single strike? Well… mostly. Had he expected her to enlist the help of easily identifiable foreign freelancers from a wide range of countries to throw Mycroft off the scent and then single handedly shoot each one at their rally point in a parking garage? Not even in his wildest dreams.

He hadn't expected her to be so talented with her thefts, either. Certainly hadn't expected her to come to enjoy it as much as she had. Molly Hooper seemed to be an easy Sunday country drive with a series of rally racing worthy 90 degree turns every so often. She didn't even do them specifically to throw him off—didn't do them simply because she sensed he was growing bored of her. Those blindsiding moments were just a natural part of Molly. And that made them all the more delightful.

Usually.

At the moment, as Jim waited for Molly to discover Sherlock's return on her own, Jim would give nearly anything to have some solid idea of how she might react. No small part of him was both furious and terrified that she might go running right back into the arms of Sherlock Holmes. He was… _fond_ of his pet. The idea of loosing her to Sherlock made him want to kill someone with his bare hands, maybe choke some poor idiot to death underwater, bring them up to let them catch a bit of breath then hold them down again and again until he finally got to watch the light go out of them.

But the fantasy of murder could only calm him so much, as it continued to be interrupted by his grasping attempts at predicting Molly's reaction to Sherlock's return. Jim had known Molly for long enough now to know she wasn't an idiot. She wasn't as brilliant as himself or the others, but she certainly wasn't stupid. If she didn't _immediately_ go running back to her angels, she would have questions. He wouldn't be able to pretend that he knew nothing of Sherlock being significantly less than dead for all this time—not to her.

He was tempted to lie to her—blatant and boldfaced. But he knew better by now. While he could sneak half truths past her and even lie when she was in a particularly lovey-dovey mood, she had a wondrous knack for seeing through him more often than not. And at this delicate point in time, he couldn't risk damaging her trust if she came to him for explanations. If she did not go running into Sherlock's good graces, she would be hesitant to trust Jim himself—even with Molly's bouts of unpredictability, Jim was certain she would feel completely betrayed on all sides by this news. He would need to give her good reason to trust him, to feel secure by his side, to believe in him. He would have to finagle his way with truths and half truths; make her believe he had done it to protect her or for the grand scheme of things or something cliched like that.

He spent the morning and a good part of the early afternoon thinking and re-thinking and plotting and planning every avenue of possibility he could see but even he knew—though would not fully admit to himself—it was not something he did in his role as a brilliant consulting criminal. No, this was fretting. This was fear. He was—as much as someone like him could be—scared to lose Molly Hooper.

The clatter of keys at the door first announced Molly's early return home. Jim made himself busy looking utterly casual in his cushy chair with his mostly cold cuppa. She didn't spot him at first. She was pale and looked like she might be in shock as she drifted through the motions of arriving home. Then her eyes landed on him and something arctic snapped to the fore.

There was a long, tense pause before she spoke, a tense murmur between clenched teeth, "Did you know?"

Not a genuine question, Jim knew immediately. Molly knew the truth. His answer would merely set the tone for the questions that followed.

"Obviously." He drawled, "Hard to ignore Sherlock on a good day but when he sets his mind to dismantling every major criminal network in Eastern Europe… well, you'd have to be a bit daft to miss him."

"Is that what I am, then? ' _A bit daft_ '?" Molly hissed.

"No." It curls from his mouth, drawn out, as if he's answering the most obvious question in the world, "Just not looking in the right places. Wasn't entirely sure where your loyalties were."

"And you are now?" She's obviously a bit pissed he seems to be just assuming things. Because, honestly, there was a part of her that cried out to rush to Sherlock's side, to spill every secret, to tell him every bit of information she knew, to warn him about Moriarty and Magnussen and the shadowy figures she hadn't yet met but could see in the gaps of conversations and plans and information passed through her every day. She felt a fool for it, felt more an idiot than she ever had weathering one of Sherlock's eviscerating deductions. Despite the shock and pain that still has her checking her chest every few minutes for a physical wound, and the final proof that she had never even managed to be a friend to Sherlock—had probably even been forgotten, her entire existence deleted for the collection of more important data in that brilliant mind—despite the fact that if she told him about Moriarty, about the entire scheme of things, she would inevitably have to confess her own crimes, would have to sign away her freedom and spend the rest of her life in prison; despite it all, her first, knee jerk reaction was to run to Sherlock Holmes, to protect him from the enemy she did not know for certain he saw. After all, both men were supposed to have died on that roof. If Sherlock had known Jim had faked as well, she doubted very much he would have gone to such lengths to keep himself dead.

"Well, you're here, aren't you." It's said like a statement but Jim finds he genuinely wants to know the answer.

"This is my flat, Jim. I _live_ here." Molly bites out.

"Obviously. But you've not been to the police station or Baker Street. No, you came here first." His eyes are sharp, intense.

Molly's jaw moves side to side. Jim knows she doesn't know she does that when she's properly pissed. It makes him want to snog her senseless with teeth and fury and violence.

The tension is finally broke with a huff and a roll of eyes from Molly, "Of course I'm not going to the police. I'm hardly going to volunteer myself for prison, am I?" She retorts, her tone still rather biting. She certainly isn't done being furious but she's not going anywhere, either.

Jim felt an odd sense of relief wash over him. Molly Hooper was an angel still—would probably always be an angel—but she wasn't on their side anymore. She was on _his_ and wasn't that a thrilling idea to have cemented in reality.

She still kicked him out not long after. She was furious and hurt, after all. But when she came from her hermitage days later, the reunion hate fuck was glorious and the electricity its aftermath sparked in Jim made him beyond restless to move things along. All the players were on the board. All the pieces lining up.

Let the game begin.


	6. Chapter 6

John was beginning to think Sherlock had gotten distracted and forgotten they were supposed to drop by Molly's new work place today. Or was possibly throwing a fit. Ever since the story of Sherlock's "resurrection" had hit the papers before Sherlock himself could reach out to tell Molly personally of his return, Sherlock had been particularly moody. John wasn't entirely sure why it bothered Sherlock so much—though Molly's little crush had been rather painfully obvious, Sherlock hadn't actually seemed that close to the woman—but the man's upset was practically painted in neon across the entirety of London. (Or in brand new bullet holes across the wall, as it was.)

Sherlock had been in his room for over an hour now and if it weren't for the ridiculous amount of ruckus and the occasional booming drawled " _No_ ," John would have worried about Sherlock having fallen into one of his between case comas. (The man rarely slept but when he did, _dear lord_. John wouldn't have faulted anyone for mistaking him for dead.) Just as John was deciding it would be better off just to make himself comfortable and wait it out with a nice cuppa, the man himself burst into the kitchen.

"What do you think of this shirt?"

"What?" John finally asked after a long beat of absolute confusion. The doctor was fairly certain he would have been less thrown through a loop if Sherlock had asked him about some eyeballs in the fridge.

"This shirt," Sherlock was clearly a touch impatient as he gestured to the pale pinstripe button down he wore, "What do you think of it."

"It's," John hesitated, shifted to turn his full attention to this newest turn of weirdness from his bizarre flatmate, "fine?"

Sherlock immediately gave a frustrated huff and spun on his heel back to his room.

"It's a _shirt_ , Sherlock." John called down the hall, "What does it matter? Mrs. Hudson's done your washing yesterday. They're all fine!"

"I'm not interested in fine." Sherlock snapped back, spitting the final word out like it was something vial and personally offensive.

"Have we got a case on you've not told me about?" John finally asked, halfway down the hall but no closer to understanding what the hell was going on with the man who hadn't batted an eye and turning up to the bloody palace in a bed sheet and _literally nothing else_.

"Of course we've got a case on, John. We're trying to discover who managed to rob The British Government in broad daylight."

"Yes." John stretched it out, eyes lightly narrowed as Sherlock quickly turned slightly one way then the other before the mirror in his room, "But this isn't about that, is it."

Sherlock fled into his closet in lieu of answering, grumbling and muttering to himself as he sorted through a wide range of disguises and every day clothes. John was not quite done with the little spark of curiosity but—as he often did if he was ever going to get an actual answer from the detective—he had to put it on the back burner when a triumphant "Ah Ha!" came and then moments later, a plain purple shirt clad Sherlock, just finishing up the last of the buttons, came to examine himself yet again.

" _That_?" John asked in a bit of disbelief, "You've spent all day in the bloody closet and you're going with a purple shirt?"

"I have it under good authority that many people have taken quite a liking to this shirt." he sniffed in a _thank you very much_ sort of tone.

"Whose good authority?" A nearly grinning John absolutely _had_ to know if Sherlock was getting fashion advice. That was not the sort of information a best friend let slide. And judging by the brief flit of unease from said friend, John was quite sure Sherlock was indeed doing something worth a bit of ribbing over.

"I've developed quite a devoted fan base in my absence." Like that answered anything.

"Yeah. And?"

"They… talk."

It took a tick for realization to hit the doctor and with it came a wide grin, "You've been reading bloody fan chats!"

"Forums." Sherlock corrected, as if that was any better. It was enough to send John into a bout of giggles.

"Oh do shut up, John. We'll be late catching Molly at lunch." Sherlock snapped, sweeping (read: escaping) from John's giggling laughter, all cool (read: flustered) drama and grace in his trusty coat and scarf.

By the time they arrived at the shiny modern building (so jarringly opposite Bart's well weathered halls, it was hard to imagine Molly Hooper of all people working within), John was absolutely certain Sherlock had something up his sleeve. The man-child was all nervous energy and impatience, and most noticeably and perplexing of all, he kept catching his own reflection in things (cabbie's rear view mirror, cab door, nearly every polished surface in a building made of spotless glass and shiny metal). Every time Sherlock caught his own reflection—not something he normally took note of—the man would turn this way and that for a few moments, then ruffle his hair. John had no idea what to make of it—of any of it. Usually a Sherlock hair ruffle was a sign of blatant frustration. But this new nervousness almost seemed like… like jittery preening? It was something John would do—had done when expecting to meet a particularly pretty woman—not something John could quite wrap his head around Sherlock fidgeting about with.

It put John through a loop and a bit on edge. There was something he was missing, a piece of the puzzle Sherlock was keeping to himself. He tried to stay alert and, as always, tried to do the impossible; keep up with a Holmes.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist asked, breaking through John's attempts to unravel Sherlock Holmes and gauge exactly how much shit the man was gearing up to rain down on them.

"Ah, yes. We're actually hoping to pop in on a friend-" John tried to charm.

"Name?" The exceptionally beautiful, exceptionally professional woman cut in.

"Ah, Molly. Molly Hooper." He supplied, recovering quickly from the mild curtness.

That certainly got her attention. A quick flick of her eyes away from her computer, a darting reevaluation of the not at all professionally dressed man on the other side of her desk. The woman had gone from bored out of her mind to on guard on a dime's turn.

What followed was a polite but firm shutting of doors over the next week and a half.

John was, frankly, a bit suspicious not only about how zealous Sherlock was being in his dogged attempts to track Molly Hooper down (there was no way in hell that man did not know/could not get a hold of at least _one_ other pathologist) but also in how especially vein the man was being. Every day— _every single God forsaken day_ —was another attempt to get past reception or surprise Molly at lunch or turn up unexpected at (read: break into) her flat—which, as it turned out, was actually no longer _her_ flat. (They were very lucky the new renter was quite the fan of Sherlock and his adventures.) And with each attempt to make contact came hours and hours of indecision on wardrobe, personal grooming, pacing, Sherlock style panic, preening, and some utterly bizarre questions John still could make little sense of.

As they crept up on week two of the inexplicably monumentus task of trying to _have a chat with some editor's secretary_. John was also growing rather suspicious of exactly _why_ it was so difficult for them to get in touch. It wasn't like John and Sherlock hadn't both offered their email addresses, their phone numbers, left messages (that no one had written down), and just about everything short of a bloody homing pigeon for Molly to get hold of them when she wasn't so absolutely unavailable. She was just a secretary, after all. What could she possibly be up to that would keep her so busy she wouldn't have even a spare moment to sent out a text?

Of course, the universe being quite a bit more lazy than Sherlock Holmes preferred to believe, the very morning after John had decided it was time to bring his odd gut feeling to Sherlock's attention (eye rolling and criticism be damned), none other than Molly Hooper herself appeared on their doorstep.

John did not immediately recognize the woman Mrs. Hudson was giddily leading up the stairs and assumed it was a client—one he'd have to deal with all on his own as the resident robot overlord had been forced to power down the night before after God knows how long of refusing to sleep over tracking down Molly bloody Hooper. He didn't actually realize she was the very woman in question until she opened her mouth and gave a cheerful greeting.

"Long time no see!"

Half frozen, his eyes swept up and down several times, _Bloody hell._ Well no wonder they hadn't been able to find her! She could have walked right by them a hundred times and John wouldn't have recognized what stood before him as the friendly pathologist from Bart's.

They had been looking for a 5"3' brunette with practical shoes, serviceable trousers, frumpy blouse, overly bright cardie or jumper, green jacket, overly large messenger bag, and either a braid over her shoulder or a pony tail. What was crossing the room to shake his hand was… exactly _none_ of those things—well, except the shoes. (The shoes were still practical, though they'd be not at all fit for any sort of medical facility.)

Cherry red flats with a black enamel cat face pinned to the top of each, stocking covered legs, a simple charcoal gray skirt just past the knees that flowed when she walked—not hugging her tight as many of the trumpet skirts around her hugged their wearers—with an almost fashionable white blouse tucked into its high waist, nearly cartoonish red cherries printed across the white expanse. Most startling however, was not the vastly altered clothing but the short, choppy, _blonde_ hair that framed red lips and delicately lined eyes.

John Watson officially did _not_ know what to do with himself. So he gaped. And gawked. And tried not to notice that Molly Hooper of all people had a lovely little waist and _good Lord_ — _Eyes up front, Watson—_ _ **Higher**_ _, Watson._ He scolded himself, focusing very specifically on her eyes as he shook himself from his moment of stupor and quickly stood, offering her his hand and a sweat.

"Right, yes, Molly Hooper. How have you been?" John struck up, still trying to wrap his head around the woman sat in Sherlock's chair.

They made small talk for a bit, caught up on what little either could remember about the other, and then John finally remembered why Sherlock had been dogging this woman to kingdom come and dug up the autopsies to present to her. Somehow, though he had seen her elbows deep in a week old body pulled from the Thames, he found himself hesitant to give Molly the folder containing pictures and notes and all. He was sure that said something rather archaic about him but it didn't stop him from being sorely tempted to pull out all the morbid photos before he handed it to her.

As he cringed at handing Ms. Hooper the fully intact folder, he was almost relieved to hear the great yawn and shuffle of the waking beast trundling down the hall. He was further relieved to see the consulting detective—with hair flooffed from sleep, the wrinkles of his pillow still tattooed into the side of his face, bleary eyed and all—in his rattiest of lounge about jimjams and not starkers under a bountiful white bed sheet.

"Sherlock." John greeted, receiving barely a grunt before Molly chimed in as well.

"Morning, Sherlock." The chipper pathologist chirped before turning her attention to the file she was quickly sorting through and spreading across her lap, "John was just telling me about these shootings. You think they're some sort of hit?"

Both she and John glanced into the kitchen when the consulting detective remained absolutely silent and devoid of snarky remarks on the obviousness of all things. Instead, he appeared to have been momentarily turned to some rather lifelike stone. He did not move. He did not blink. John was genuinely worried the man wasn't breathing.

Then Sherlock's entire face turned a startlingly brilliant shade of red, he turned on his heels, and rushed back to his room, calling for John as he escaped down the hall, "John, a word!"


	7. Chapter 7

This was not— _at all_ — _ **remotely**_ how he had been imagining his reunion with Molly Hooper. He had imagined popped collars and swirling coats and flirting and doe eyed sighing from an utterly enthralled Molly Hooper. Not—not Medusa hair and sleep in his eyes and probably drool on his face and oh—oh _just bloody perfect_ , stains all over his favorite (softest) beat about shirt! Good Lord, he wanted the floor to swallow him up to save him the trouble of dying from the absolute humiliation of it. Though at the rate his heart was beating (and from inside his throat no less), cardiac arrest might beat supernatural floor feasts to the punch.

The minute John entered his room, Sherlock turned on the fool, "What is _she_ doing here?" Sherlock spat it out half panicked, half as if Molly was some well known nemesis of his.

Obviously, this attitude threw John for a bit of a loop before his patience finally snapped, "She is here to look at the autopsies, Sherlock." John spoke in clipped tones before folding his arms over his chest and leaning in, clearly both a bit cross and quite frustrated at how absolutely lost he was in whatever was going on in Sherlock's mammoth brain, "We have been trying to get in touch with that woman for almost _two weeks_ and now here she is, in our sitting room, and you're throwing a fit." He flung his hands up in exasperation, "Would you prefer I kicked her out?"

Sherlock could hear the sarcasm in John's voice—and John was never one to shoo away a pretty woman—but even still, Sherlock could not help the knee jerk response that came with the threat of losing Molly again. His hand shot out, taking firm hold of John's forearm and he gave a quick, almost desperate "No!" the word jumping from him before his brain could even think it.

"No." He tried again, aiming for calm and almost managing, "That won't be necessary. Just… just keep her occupied until I can get properly dressed."

John's brows shot up, "Since when do you get dressed for anyone. You went to the bloody palace starkers-"

"OH do shut up." Sherlock grumbled, shoving John out of his room and back into the hall.

When John returned to the living room, Molly was scanning the written autopsy report looking nearly bored.

"Everything alright?" She asked, glancing up at him.

"Yes, yes. Just Sherlock," he trailed off and glanced back at Sherlock's closed door, at a bit of a loss, "being Sherlock, I guess."

"You know, I'm not really certain why you want me to look at these. They look like fairly straight forward shootings. No signs of mystery poisons or overlooked bruising or secondary wounds I can find from these photos. And by the dates on these reports, even if something was missed, by now the bodies won't be in any shape to be properly reexamined. And quite honestly, I've been away from all this for so long I'm sure there are better people to ask. I'm really not sure what I can do."

John thought he saw a bit of heart ache in the twist of Molly's little smile and it tugged at his own. So he scratched the back of his neck and sat down across from her in his own chair, "Yes, well, neither am I. Everything looks rather straight forward to me, as well—though obviously it's not my specialty. Still Sherlock was quite determined to get your input. And you know how he is once he's on a case. Wild horses and all that." He paused for a moment, pretending to be thoughtful, as if the question hadn't been nagging at him since the moment Mycroft had informed them, "I am rather curious, though. Why _did_ you leave Bart's?"

Molly's eyes turned a bit dark, her smile a bit hard, something sharp he'd never seen from the woman before lingering just under the surface as she answered in a pleasant, casual tone, "Well, once your friend's flung himself off the top of your work place, makes it a bit hard to go back." She gave a little laugh as if it was one of her awkward, morbid jokes and though John smiled a bit uncomfortably, he didn't hear the punchline.

"Yes, well, I suppose we should apologize for that. We did try to reach out before the whole mess hit the public. Don't imagine it was very pleasant hearing about it from the papers."

"No." Molly agreed shortly, turning her full attention to the reports before her but no longer willing to bend over backwards to relieve any bit of John's sudden crushing guilt.

There was a long, heavy beat then. Filled with awkward tension that strangely, seemed to leave Molly untouched. John tried—unsuccessfully—to break it with a clearing of his throat.

The beat became a pause.

John bounced his leg, strummed his fingers and Molly Hooper continued on browsing through the dead. John did not know what to do with a Molly that did not fill the awkward silences with morbid humor or simple, genuine friendliness. It was beyond strange. And a bit unnerving. And good God what was taking Sherlock so long?

"Tea?" John offered, already practically leaping from his chair to fix something in the bio-hazard that was 221B's kitchen. He was actually quite grateful when halfway through his assembly of a tray (and a debate on whether or not to bother Mrs. Hudson for something better than the stale bikkies they had to spare), Sherlock in full dramatic fashion, swept into the room.

Gone were the well worn jimjams and sleep pressed face. In their place was a bright eyed, clean shaven man in a (doubtless ridiculously expensive) white shirt and black pressed slacks. Effortlessly casual, perfectly elegant, and completely full of himself no doubt. But if it meant not having to deal with the crushing guilt of facing Molly Hooper, John would gladly take the full force of an over confident Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, the whole effect didn't last long as Sherlock first faltered at not being able to swoop with elegant grace into his own chair and then again a beat later—just as he was recovering and aiming himself for John's chair instead—when Molly looked up from her browsing of the autopsies. Big brown eyes through lightly mascaraed lashes had Sherlock's heart in his throat again and he genuinely wasn't certain whether he wanted to run back to his room and hide there for the rest of time or curl himself into Molly Hooper's lap and purr like a newly discovered species of house cat.

"Good morning. Again." Molly greeted with a little smile as Sherlock slid into John's chair, "I was just telling John I think I'm a bit out of practice to be of much help but I've got the numbers of some very qualified-"

"No, no, that won't be necessary." The detective cut in immediately, doing his best to focus on the task at hand and not on the thousand and one deductions on all that had changed in Molly Hooper over the years that wanted to spill out of his mouth in what would doubtlessly be an absolute train wreck of hurt feelings and too-much-said, "How does a trip up north sound?" he asked briskly in that way of asking a question without genuinely asking, "I'm sure you can schedule a week or two off-"

"A week or two?" Molly was sensibly alarmed though Sherlock continued over her.

"on short notice. They can certainly find someone to cover the phones while you're away. And a bit of international espionage is certainly more interesting than sitting behind a desk all day fetching tea for egotistical-" John's expression of " _look who's talking_ " did not go unnoticed, "editors who wouldn't know a real story if it bit them." Sherlock was finally beginning to catch on to the bitterness in his own voice and somehow managed to shut himself up before it became too readily apparent but as his wandering eyes trailed back to Molly, he realized he may have already misspoken at some point. Lips turned down slightly, eyes narrowed, jaw tight—definitely more than mildly irritated.

"Why? So I can faff about up north fetching your coffee for free instead of being paid to fetch someone else's tea right here in London?" There was absolute poison in Molly Hooper's voice and it made Sherlock's gut plummet.

"That's not-"

"I do more than just answer phones for people, Sherlock." She cut him off, her anger burning just below the surface of every curt word, "I'm not so easily replaced anymore."

John recognized the look of utter panic on his best friend's face. Sherlock's lips parted, his mind valiantly scrambling for words to fix the absolutely unintended take away Molly had gathered from him. (The words " _I'm not so easily replaced anymore_ " would echo painfully in his head for days and weeks to come. The implication that Molly had _ever_ been replaceable much less easily so was down right horrifying. The guilt lurking at the corners of his mind that he likely played a part in making her feel replaceable would linger for much, much longer.)

But Molly continued on as she neatly and precisely reassembled the autopsies, "You asked me here for a professional opinion so I'll give it to you. These five were likely killed by an at least moderately skilled shooter. Four of the five were shot at intermediate range indicating they were likely the first three victims and that this group was either originally standing quite close together—indicating either some familiarity between them or an outside distraction meant to draw them closer together—or that your shooter is quite quick on the trigger—you'd have to ask his girlfriend to confirm." John just about shot tea out his nose though Molly hardly seemed to notice the choking from the man sat in the chair usually reserved for clients, "One of the five was shot at distant range indicating he was likely the last victim, though it looks from these crime scene photos that he also didn't get very far. All in all, it looks like these murders were done in quick succession. With this many dead in one go, I'd normally lean towards gang violence or organized crime. However, while I can't know for sure from what you've given me, it doesn't look like the bodies were placed in prominent enough locations for a classic warning and the gun shot wounds are neither head shots, nor sloppily done body shots. There are no indications of torture or dramatics, simply well placed shots to the center mass that would result in death within a matter of seconds or minutes."

In the beat that followed Molly's swift, precise summation of her findings from what little they had provided her, Sherlock compulsively swallowed down the nearly overwhelming urge to beg Molly Hooper to have his most brilliant, beautiful babies. They could get started on them right away if she liked; he was rather sure John would make a swift exit if Sherlock subtly fell to his knees and put his head up Molly's skirt.

 _Focus._ He snapped at himself. Good lord, he'd been away too long and surely John had been a most terrible influence—especially since his newfound obsession with Mary Morstan.

"Yes, very good." He cleared his throat and folded his legs, resettling himself in John's rather unfamiliar chair, "This is exactly the sort of expertise we need. I'm sure you could glean even more from the actual crime scene itself-"

"Crime scenes are your area, Sherlock. Not mine. I've told you what I can with what you've given me but the fact of the matter is you haven't got any bodies so you're hardly in need of a pathologist."

Ah, yes, there was that knife in the gut feeling again. Lovely.

"Yes, well, actually, we'll be interviewing the original pathologist again and your input would be greatly appreciated." Sherlock's expression was a bit tight, his eyes not quite making contact with Molly's guarded gaze, and his musician's fingers plucked nervously at the arms of John's chair. He was trying so desperately hard to be pleasant but persistent and though John could not—for the life of him—figure out why Sherlock wanted Molly along for this case so badly, he was silently willing Molly to do what Molly did second best; give in to Sherlock Holmes' strange whims.

"I'm sorry," Molly said as she began to collect her things and stand, though she certainly looked less sorry and much more fed up, "but I'm leaving for Scotland tomorrow. I'll be out of town for the next few weeks. But do feel free to ring the office if you've any questions or any more bodies you'd like me to take a look at."

"I prefer to text." Sherlock tried, as he stood and smoothly pulled out his phone in a single, fluid movement; his attempt at suave casualness a last ditch attempt to gain something to begin rebuilding the obvious damage he had done to his relationship with Molly, "If you wouldn't mind-"

"If you prefer written communication, the main inquiries email is quite easy to find on our website. I'm sure you'll manage. It was lovely seeing you again. Glad you're not dead. John, Sherlock." She nodded her goodbye stiffly to each before turning and nearly fleeing out the door, down the steps, and into the busy London streets.

There was a long, long pause in which Sherlock looked thoroughly disheartened and John silently floundered for something comforting to say. What came out instead was a halfway joking, "Well, at least she didn't knock any of your teeth out."

Sherlock did not look the least bit relieved at the sentiment.


	8. Chapter 8

*said in my best PBS voice* This chapter was inspired by ll_again tumblr post and made possible by the amazing encouragement of ribcage and reviewers like you. Thank you.

Jim Moriarty was beginning to think Molly Hooper might actually be a tinsy bit… _magic_. Obviously magic wasn't real! _Obviously_.

… But if it did exist-

No. Stupid.

-But if it _did_. It might, perhaps, for the sake of argument, look a bit like Molly Hooper.

For no matter how weird or out of the blue or off the wall Jim's requests were; Molly Hooper _knew a guy_. Mousy Molly who didn't really have any friends, who was always the odd one out, who was so desperately lonely and nearly completely alone in the world; always and without fail _knew a guy_. And it wasn't just any guy, either. Regardless of task, regardless of request; Molly Hooper new a guy for the job who _owed her a favor_ (or eight). People didn't know her name like they knew Irene Adler's. Her presence did not bring hushes to rooms like Jim Moriarty's. She wasn't one of five people in the world that could kill a man half a world away with the right gun like Sebastian Moran. She was Molly Hooper. _Just_ Molly Hooper.

And there didn't seem to be a single inconspicuous man, woman, or child in the greater London area that didn't owe Molly Hooper a favor (or eight). And the more they traveled—the more _she_ traveled—the wider her network of favors owed seemed to grow.

And Jim had no idea how she was doing it.

She wasn't blackmailing them (not only did most seem genuinely pleased to see her if they saw her at all or asked after her fondly if Molly wasn't there in person, but she liked to keep her blackmailing strictly to Magnussen's shadow. Jim suspected they had some sort of pact about it but he was hardly interested enough to bother with finding out). She wasn't bribing them with drugs or wo/men (she preferred to keep herself well away from the drugs aspect of things when she could [Jim knew they reminded her of Sherlock's darker days and occasionally enjoyed forcing her to deal with the cartels and smugglers first hand because of it] and she'd had to gal to ruin several human trafficking operations [which he'd just about shot her for though they'd somehow ended up giving each other carpet burn instead]). She was rarely even paying for them (he'd seen first hand several instances of Molly attempting to pay whoever owed her the favor of the moment only to have the money gently but firmly turned down. Who even did that? What sort of human person turned down money? Actual, real, legal tender; and these strangers Molly summoned with a text or a call _turned it down_ ).

So how, _in the hell_ , was Molly Hooper always able to accommodate the strangest of whims and get herself (and others) out of the tightest of spots with a seemingly limitless network of people who just—just owed her secret favors?

It was one of the (many) reasons Jim was often vaguely surprised that Molly Hooper had never managed to get into the business of crime before they'd met. He was never quite sure whether he was pleased or disappointed by that. On the one hand, it would have been absolutely lovely to go toe to toe with a truly crooked Molly Hooper; though, honestly, he likely would have ended up killing her for the simple sake of weeding out the competition. But on the other hand, it brought the absolute best types of tingles watching her grow from a painfully perfect law abiding citizen to an international art thief, professional blackmailer, and a five time murderer. Still, as thrilling as it was to be a part of Molly's metamorphosis, Jim couldn't help but notice he wasn't always as sure footed with Molly as he was with the breaking and making of others.

" _You know people, Jim, but people don't know you."_ It was something Molly'd said at some point, he couldn't remember exactly when anymore. But it was something that stuck in his head like a broken record to fill the silences when he was all alone (rarer these days as he often had his Hooper with him to stem the boredom). Perhaps it was something they had in common. For the longer Jim knew her, the more he began to understand he truly _didn't_.

The most vivid reminder of this had come with Molly's heist of The Ice Man. He'd never in a million years thought Molly would have killed those five herself. Bribe their (likely short lived) silence? Of course. Send Sebastian to clean up once they thought they were safe and sound? Possibly. Kill them via poison or other long distance, hands off method? Sure. But to put bullets in them herself, and at such close range? Jim still couldn't really believe Molly had done that.

It was harder still to believe that she'd remained so utterly unchanged by the taking of not just one life but several. She didn't wake in cold sweats. She didn't tremble at the sight or mention of a gun. She hadn't developed a lust for blood (pity, that). She didn't show any of the more normal signs of having been through a life altering trauma—which murder generally was for the average human. And when he'd asked her about it, she'd answered simply: _"I've been working with the dead nearly all my adult life. It's not nearly as difficult making the corpses as it is caring for them afterwards."_

So perhaps he didn't know Molly Hooper nearly as well as he (or anyone) liked to think. Or perhaps it was something else. Perhaps Molly Hooper was a placid lake with riptide undercurrents and worlds of life unseen from above. Perhaps she changed and adapted fast enough to every curve ball he (and life) threw at her that she would simply always be an unknowable factor.

It grated on his nerves.

It _excited_ him.

And now, laying naked in bed as his gaze lazily followed Molly's progress, he didn't even need to offer her "encouragement" or wish lists to get her to break laws galore, "What is it you're stealing from _Scotland_ of all places again?"

"A Daubigny and a Monet. I'm actually quite surprised they have the real deal on display at the gallery. I expected fakes the lot of them."

"Should I give our Mr. Taylor a ring? Or have you already got someone lined up?" Jim asked lazily, not actually that interested in who Molly was fencing them to but whether or not he'd have to spend another week tiptoeing around priceless art while Molly cooed and sighed and mother henned the pieces to death.

Molly paused a bit, fiddling with the hem of her jumper, "Oh, well, actually," she hesitated before finally admitting shyly, "I was—well, the thing is—I was thinking—well, rather hoping to—if it doesn't turn out to be more trouble than it's worth—I was thinking maybe… maybe I could… maybe keep? These?" She finished her nervous babbling and peeked at him from the corner of her eye.

"You're starting your own collection?"

"Just a few." Molly hedged shyly.

There was a beat of pause before Jim hummed, "Ambitious."

Molly gave a little grin and bounded across the room to press a little kiss to his forehead before bounding off again to finish readying for her theft.

They were still on slightly tenuous ground from his hiding Sherlock's not-as-dead-as-you'd-think status (and probably from his threat to scalp Wiggins and wear him as a hat early in the week. He wished her acquisition of strays would have limited itself to cats. They were so much more agreeable than humans. He'd never once had the urge to throw Toby out a window just to see the spatter pattern of his brain. The same could not be said for "The Wigg." Bloody stupid name.) but things were getting better between them.

Which was for the best as renewing his connections with the Russians and Germans that had spent the last few years dealing with a single minded Sherlock Holmes was just so much easier to manage with Molly at his side. Molly could drink like a Russian (and they simply _loved_ teaching her filthy and deeply insulting things to say in Russian) and somehow got German humor (Jim really shouldn't have been as confounded by that as he was, all things considered). Most of his shadier Eastern European criminals quite liked sunny little Molly Hooper and thus, were far less likely to attempt to murder either one of them if he brought her along. Plus, Molly was making rather a name for herself as "The Missus" in certain criminal circles. Her art thefts weren't yet connected to her growing criminal name but her upper management of a large portion of the greater London area crime was quietly known to be the work of "The Missus." (Jim would bet money he knew exactly where that bloody stupid name came from, as well. Molly really should collect better quality strays.)

A brunch with Moriarty and The Missus was rather a big deal and—until recently—rather a rare thing. But with Sherlock finally back to play, Jim had to regroup old pieces and collect new toys. And that meant being taken seriously—making others think they were being taken seriously. It certainly didn't hurt that it also meant taking a very pissed off Molly to quite a lot of very lovely hotels, scrumptious eateries, and exclusive entertainment venues.

Not that, that had been a primary motivator to start conducting some of his more important business in person or anything.

"If I'm not back by seven, call the cavalry." Molly sings on her way out the door.

* * *

Molly had picked up a bit of a habit from Jim. Well, she'd picked up more than a few over the years but the most notable was her use of playlists. At Bart's, there hadn't really been room for music. If she was preforming an autopsy, she couldn't very well have music drowning out her meticulously recorded audio notes—not to mention the acoustics in the mortuary were absolutely terrible—and there were often quite a lot of people in and out of the lab (until Sherlock showed up, of course, then people quietly fled), all preforming a variety of detail oriented tasks and all possessing a wide range of musical preferences—not a situation that lent itself to simply flipping on a radio station or blasting a playlist of classics and Glee.

Now, however, Molly could make room for whatever she pleased. And a playlist for a meticulously timed crime was actually extraordinarily helpful. It helped her keep her pacing, keep track of time without having to check a watch. It helped her relax into the motions, focus on the task; turned the strenuous task of stealing heavy framed, well secured works of art into a perfectly timed dance. And it sometimes made her feel like her life had its very own soundtrack.

In the beginning, Molly had chosen songs without lyrics. It kept her from singing along (and thus probably getting herself caught). But in the last few months, she'd been picking things that suited her mood regardless. Tonight's theft was being fueled by her conflicted emotions on not only Sherlock's sudden return from the dead but Jim's decision to hide said not-death from her for so very long and her own decision to stay with Moriarty despite her deep seeded desire to flee to the relative safety of Sherlock Holmes and the right side of the law.

Which meant quite a lot of Queen, of course.

Six minutes to disarm the first three sets of alarms? Bohemian Rhapsody. (Try desperately not to relate so deeply to the lyrics which made her at once think vividly of her more recent decent into crime, her steadily worsening mental health, and the two larger than life men in her life.)

Five minutes to get from the security room to the Monet? I Will Survive. (Don't even attempt to resist the fantasy of dedicating this song to Sherlock on her next karaoke night with Moran and Wiggins. _God_ she wished she could blast it at the sod every time that idiot decided he had the right to breathe her air. If she ever gave him her number, this would absolutely have to be his ringtone.)

Disarming and dismounting the Monet? Homewrecker. (Okay, so she hadn't ever cheated on a partner or been a mistress but the way her life was going; she was going to have to get used to lying to her friends—God, it was pathetic she still thought of Sherlock's people as her friends, even after all they'd proven to the contrary—and eventually, when Sherlock inevitably discovered her secret life, she would have to get used to living on the run and though she cared deeply for Jim, he wasn't the sort of man a woman could trust and love and remain unbroken by.)

Need to keep the dismounting of the Daubigny to under four minutes? Another One Bites The Dust. (The buzz of theft usually started chasing away the heaviness of her darker thoughts by the halfway point, the nerves of getting caught slowly edged out by the thrill of getting away with it. This was the perfect song to welcome that happy near-victory buzz with.)

Deleting security footage and reactivating alarms? Fat Bottomed Girls. (For some reason, nothing said mischief and victory quite like Fat Bottomed Girls. Plus, if Janine brashly suggested she either take up a diet or join a gym one more _god damn time_ , Molly was going to flavor that woman's next salad with a pinch of ricin. Or maybe she could make a special monkshood lotion for that glowing goddess of an Irish beauty.)

Make her final exit before the sleepy night guard finally realized something was amiss? Take Me Out and You Don't Own Me. (Because when you've just stolen priceless works of art for yourself, you're allowed to indulge in the glee of terrible puns.)

Making her way back to the hotel where her—likely still naked—man was waiting with a well earned breakfast spread as the sun was finally rising with her prizes successfully secured? Killer Queen. On repeat. (Really, it was impossible not to feel like queen of the world with the vibrant thrill coursing through her veins, making her steps bounce and her hips sway; the smooth strut of a cat with a belly full of canary.)

* * *

Molly returned well before seven that morning and even though they had brunch with Demitri at ten, Molly still insisted on having an omelet, a small bowl of fruit, several slices of bacon, and Jim for breakfast. Jim lodged no complaints.

Eventually dressed in warm, black, fleece lined stockings; a white tea dress with a few large, vibrant red poppies painted across the skirt; and a red cardigan, Molly was practically glowing and ready for their private brunch with an international crime boss. Jim dressed in his clean cut Westwood, complete with discreetly tucked .22 and switchblade. At the (well bribed) restaurant, they were shown to the private dining room where their guest and his select few right hand men/body guards had already made themselves comfortable.

"Uncle Seva!" Molly called excitedly, breaking away from Jim with open arms for the fat old Russian mob boss. Semion Mogilevich was a hard man if there ever was one. Even the FBI had simply given up on ever catching him despite their laundry list of warrants still out for his arrest. While the world believed Mogilevich had given up on travel to the West in the 90's, anyone that truly knew the man knew he wasn't someone to allow a single aspect of his will to be caged.

The next few hours were spent with Moriarty and Mogilevich staring each other down, each a hair's twitch away from simplifying their own life by cutting the other's throat open while Molly pretended not to notice, chatted away happily, poured lots of Vodka, eventually got a drinking game going, and learned some _extremely_ racist jokes in Russian. As Moriarty watched, he could see Molly's unrelenting innocence and jovial attitude slowly softening _Uncle Seva_. By the time Semion called an end to their meeting, though Jim had spoken very little and Semion had certainly not forgiven Jim for unleashing Sherlock on the vast network of organized crime he ran; there were no bodies to clean up, no threats of future assassination attempts, and even a vague sort of invitation for another meal at some equally vague point in time. Which was—quite frankly—a miracle considering how tightly the man usually held to grudges.

It was, all things considered, quite a lovely working holiday despite being in perhaps one of the dreariest places known to man. Right up until, of course, things decided to get a bit more complicated than Jim had anticipated.


End file.
